


Weekend at Gabriel's

by cosmic_medusa



Series: We Three Kings [13]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drug Addiction, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:39:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27910135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmic_medusa/pseuds/cosmic_medusa
Summary: After the events ofThose Who Live Among You, Cas decides he needs a break from the Winchesters. Visiting his favorite brother seems like the perfect escape. Meanwhile, Dean enjoys a weekend with Sam and wonders if there isn't something to the adage of three being a crowd.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: We Three Kings [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1306616
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

“I don’t understand why you felt I shouldn’t hear about this,” Dean roared.  
  
Following Sam’s confession of his services to Fitzgerald McCloud—the details of which he’d only vaguely been able to obtain from either of the Winchesters—Sam’s private session with Missouri had been turned into the family therapy of old by a furious and confrontational Dean. Cas had rescheduled his shift and joined the two Winchesters at Rosemount for the hour.  
  
“I didn’t ‘decide’ anything,” Missouri said calmly. “I have a legal, moral, ethical, and _practical_ obligation not to spill the testimonies told inside this room.”  
  
“In all the times you and me and Sam and Cas have _sat_ in this room, it _never_ occurred to you that we should discuss some sonofabitch threatening Sam’s life on the street?”  
  
“No, it didn’t. Not while I had Sam’s trust and confidentially on the line.”  
  
“That...evil, sadistic... _rapist_ threatened my _brother_ , and you didn’t think I needed to know!” Dean roared. “Who the _hell_ do you think you are?”  
  
“I think,” Missouri snapped, getting to her feet, “that you best sit down and shut your big flapping mouth. Because in this room, _I’m_ in charge, and _I_ call the shots, and _I_ think, that when Sam walks through that door, this is _his_ space, and _his_ time to tell _me_ what he needs to, with no one, even _you,_ interfering.”  
  
“Dean,” Sam said, voice low, but eyes sharp and meeting his brother’s. “I asked her, _specifically,_ not to tell you.”  
  
Dean whirled on his brother, fury still clear on his face. “So you thought I didn’t need to know about this?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Since _when_?”  
  
“Since you were ten and I was six and you decided it was your job to sacrifice for me, Dean!” he shouted. “Since I was nine and you first started breaking into houses to steal me shoes and clothes and Christmas gifts! Since I was twelve and you beat Denny Hampson to a pulp for knocking me down the stairs!”  
  
“This isn’t some jerk wanting your lunch money. This is a dangerous man with a weapon who threatened to kill you, who tried to—”  
  
“I _know_! I lived it, you didn’t! And it was—I didn’t—”  
  
“What, were you _embarrassed_?” Sam turned bright red. “For God’s _sake_ , Sammy, it’s _me_.”  
  
“What if he tells and you go to jail?” Dean’s eyes cut sharply toward Missouri, who had resumed her seat, arms crossed over her large chest. She raised a cool eyebrow toward him.  
  
“I won’t,” he said.  
  
“I—” Sam’s breath hitched. “I don’t want to relive all this, Dean. I thought I’d left it behind.” He drew a slow, shaky breath. “I need you to let this go.”  
  
“No. I need to know why you couldn’t tell me.”  
  
“I’ve told you.”  
  
“He could have killed you. He could have given you HIV or God knows what else.” He whirled on Missouri. “Did you think of that? Did you order tests for him?”  
  
“We tested him for everything known and a few things not when he came through those doors,” he said cooly. “He’s clean as a saint’s whistle.”  
  
“Why didn’t you tell me on your own?” Dean snapped, voice suddenly heart-broken. “Why didn’t you just...come _home_?”  
  
“You told me not to,” Sam managed, voice cracking.  
  
Cas and Missouri sit silently as the brothers stare at each other. They’re not needed. Cas is beginning to wonder if they ever were.  
  


***

  
Dean dropped his brother off at the bookstore where he worked part-time.  
  
“Here,” he said, and tossed a twenty into the backseat. “Get a good lunch, okay? You good on meds?”  
  
Sam nodded, carefully smoothing out the creases in the bill and folding it. “Is it...um...am I still allowed to come over? For...the weekend?”  
  
Dean’s jaw jumped. His eyes dampened slightly, but his voice was steady when he said “I’m picking you up after your shift. You call me on your break.” And then he turned and gave a small, but sincere, smile. “It’s okay, Sammy. Everything’s going to be okay. I’m not mad you. We’ll talk, and relax, this weekend. Okay? Don’t worry.”  
  
Sam’s breath had hitched, and he sort of reached his hand out, stopping just short of Dean’s. The elder Winchester reached across the remaining distance and squeezed his brother’s wrist, then gave him a light smack on the arm as Sam exited the Impala and struck out for the store entrance.  
  
“Christ,” he sighed. “There are days I want to put him on a leash.” Dean released the brake and guided them around the strip-mall parking-lot and back onto the main road. “You’ve been quiet.”  
  
Cas had been dead silent, actually. He’d been using the time he wasn’t needed to try and construct the most diplomatic way of saying what he had to.  
  
“I’m having some difficulty reconciling what you did with who I thought you were,” he finally said. Dean’s green eyes cut sharply his way.  
  
“You wanna try that again?”  
  
“I’m a little uncomfortable with the fact that you assaulted that man.”  
  
“You’re joking.”  
  
“Dean—”  
  
“I did what I had to.”  
  
“You did what you _wanted_ to. And...it was something I previously would have felt you were incapable of.”  
  
“I don’t go around hurting innocent people, Cas,” Dean snapped. “Or even people I see who would deserve it. But I’m not going to let anyone get away with threatening my brother like he did.”  
  
“We could have gone to the police.”  
  
“Are you out of your mind?” Dean’s voice was rising slightly. “We’re going to tell the cops that a former drug addict claims he was assaulted while prostituting himself to a dealer?”  
  
“They would have been able to follow up on his claims of his drug activity.”  
  
“I guarantee he’s got ace security with hiding spaces more covert than Anne Frank’s attic. We’re talking about the word of a big-wig businessman versus the word of a recovering junkie and his high-school dropout brother with the questionable legal history. Who the hell do you think the world is gonna believe?”  
  
“I just feel there could have been another way.”  
  
“Cas, what that sonofabitch did was bad enough. But now he knows where Sam _lives_. I couldn’t risk him out there, maybe deciding he wanted another go, or that he couldn’t have Sammy knowing what he did, or having Balthazar running his mouth about God knows what, and there’s no way he was going to go down without being caught red-handed.”  
  
“We could have worked with the proper authorities to _catch_ him red-handed.”  
  
“He was going to _rape Sam_!” Dean hollered. “He held a gun on him! And he knows our last name and address! He’s got millions, we got shit! _This_ is the real world, Cas! Get out of your Ivory Tower and walk around. There’s no justice for people like Sam and me. Not unless we make our own.”  
  
“What you’re suggesting would be anarchy. You speak as though you were a vigilante.”  
  
“I’d of done the same for you,” Dean hissed, and pushed hard on the accelerator. Cas couldn’t bring himself to chide him anymore than he could tell him not to bother, his violence wasn’t needed or wanted in the world.  
  
Because he felt, all too sharply, that his opinion wasn’t wanted, or needed, by the Winchesters, either.  
  


***

  
Sam arrived with his usual duffel, but with also with a big brown grocery bag. He’d decided to make them dinner, as he had in the past, before the “illness.” Dean bitched when he saw the fresh fruit and veggies Sam had bought, but grunted less when he saw he’d picked up an apple pie to go with it.  
  
Cas didn’t offer to help. Instead, he sat in the livingroom and scanned the paper for any updates on McCloud’s condition and the ongoing investigation. He heard Dean’s low grumbles and Sam’s laughter, and Dean’s little snorts of amusement from time to time. When dinner was ready, Sam was smiling, holding out a plate of baked chicken, green-beans, broccoli, and brussel sprouts, and a baked sweet potato. Cas looked at his friend’s eager-to-please expression and felt an unusual spike of resentment. Sam had invaded his little world with Dean, brought violence down on all of them, and still had the nerve to look pleading. After all Cas had tried to given him, a decent dinner wasn’t going to make up for the doubt Cas now had about his choice to stay with the elder Winchester.  
  
“I don’t want that,” he said coolly, oddly proud of the flinch that rolled over Sam’s big, kind eyes. “I have to be at the hospital soon.”  
  
“I could pack it for you,” Sam offered. Cas felt Dean’s glare without having to look.   
  
“Unlike you two, I don’t have time to have a full meal on my shift. I’ll be lucky to grab a sandwich.”  
  
“I could...put the chicken in a sandwich,” Sam said.  
  
“I prefer the cafeteria.”  
  
“Okay. Well...I’ll cover it and leave it for you, if you’re hungry when you get home, or change your mind.” Sam tried to smile, but it was smaller than before. He was doing the classic Winchester ‘if we can agree on this minutiae it means that we’re cool with everything we _should_ be talking about.’  
  
But Cas was not ‘cool’ with any of this. In no way is he even close to ‘cool.’  
  
“I don’t want anything from you, Sam. And I know better than to hope to receive anything. From _any_ Winchester,” he snapped, eyes narrowing toward Dean. Dean glared back, while Sam looked between the two of them, looking both baffled and hurt.  
  
“Cas…”  
  
“I’ll be back in the morning.”  
  
“C’mon, Sammy. Let's dig in before it gets cold,” Dean said lightly. Cas could feel his boyfriend’s glare boring between his shoulder blades the whole way out the door.  


***

  
Cas did his best to throw himself into work. As long as he was staring at charts, talking with patients, reviewing nurse’s notes and medications, consulting with his fellow physicians, he could put the Winchesters out of his mind. But each and every time he passed Balthazar’s office, he felt a punch of conscious, remembering how distraught he was that his friend had not only been hurt, but was apparently not the man he thought he was.  
  
Just like Dean. A man Cas had thought had left violence behind him, same as he’d left booze.  
  
Yes, McCloud, or ‘Crowley,’ as Sam referred to him, had been dangerous. Yes, he’d threatened Sam. But Sam was far from innocent. He’d put himself in that position in the first place. He’d taken the man’s ‘help’—aka, drugs—in exchange for his...favors.  
  
It turned Cas’ stomach to think of. Just like he couldn’t reconcile this brutal side of Dean with the man who stayed up all night, comforting his grieving younger brother, or made Cas eggs and toast and coffee in the morning, or brought him and Sam ginger ale and saltines and oatmeal when they’d managed to catch the same stomach bug on the same weekend, he couldn’t reconcile the young man who’d stood in the kitchen, with the wide and hopeful eyes and the plate of homemade dinner, with the nasty, lying, manipulative addict who’d stolen from his wallet, drank his way through their stash of booze, and degraded himself before a cruel, conniving dealer.  
  
He thought of Sam’s sweet smile, his wide-eyes, the way he trailed along after his big brother in his most grief-stricken states, and it made him ill. Dean’s warm, soft, understanding looks made him ill. His excited green eyes made him ill. The two damaged, but loving men made him feel like a gerbil on a wheel. Because how far was too far? How much forgiveness did they deserve before Cas recognized that Michael was right—that he’d made a horrible mistake?  
  
Cas surprised himself to find he had the phone to his ear, New York ringing on the other end.  
  
“Bro!” the answering shout came. “I’ve been drinking, but don’t worry! I’m gonna remember this. I’m gonna—gonna write it down. Gonna—I’M TALKING TO MY BROTHER!—I’m gonna—know it. I know it. What’s up?”  
  
“Gabe,” he said. “Where will you be this weekend?”  
  
“Right here, Cassie. City that never sleeps. Why? You thinking of coming home?” And, even in his drunken haze, his voice dropped to a more sincere, sober tone. “You okay?”  
  
Cas glanced over his shoulder, as if someone would overhear and condemn him before he spoke the words.  
  
“Yes. But I am thinking of coming home.”

***

  
When Cas unlocked the front door early the next morning, he found that the sofabed had been pulled out. Dean sat on the end closest to the door, flipping through the almost silent television, while Sam had both arms wrapped around his brother's leg and his face pushed against Dean's thigh.  
  
“Hey,” Dean said.  
  
“Hello, Dean.” Cas closed their front door. “Is he alright?”  
  
"Woke up about an hour ago shaking, but passed out again after about twenty minutes." Sam's breath hitched. Dean's hand dropped to his hair and smoothed it off his brother's forehead, eyes never leaving the TV. Sam quieted. "Got a Goddamn death grip on my leg."  
  
Asleep, Sam could have been a child again, the sweet, untouched one Dean had long ago fought to defend. No matter the age, he hadn't outgrown the belief that his big brother could do anything. It brought an ache to Cas's chest.  
  
"He'd do this when we were kids," Dean said, smiling down at his brother's dark head. "And when he was a rugrat, he'd sit on my foot and wrap up around my leg and I'd swing him back and forth. You'd think it was a ride at Disneyland the way he screamed and laughed."  
  
“I’m going to visit Gabriel this weekend,” Cas said, in a way that clearly meant _I need time away from you._  
  
“Tell him hey from us.”  
  
“I’ll leave in the morning.” Cas started up the stairs.   
  
“You will never get me to apologize,” Dean said, cool as can be. “Because I’m not sorry. As long as you don’t come back looking for a _mea culpa_ , go the hell ahead.”  
  
“Assuming I come back at all.”  
  
He knew he’d hurt Dean: could feel it, even if he refused to turn and see it. Abandonment was a mortal fear of the Winchester brothers, and they really couldn’t bear another loss so soon after so many. But Cas really wasn’t sure, in that moment, if he was capable of carrying them any further.  
  
“If you’re copping out,” Dean said coldly, “you leave a godamn check for your half of the mortgage this month.”  
  
“I’ll do so.”  
  
“And don’t you dare talk to Sammy about this.”  
  
“Or you’ll leave me beaten in an alley?”  
  
“Or I will do what I have to do to protect my family. Like I always have.”  
  
“Goodnight, Dean.”  
  
“Screw you, Cas.”  
  
When Cas came down the stairs in the morning and told him he was going to the airport, Dean didn’t even come out from under the Impala to say goodbye.  


***

  
Gabriel was standing at the airport in a gray chauffer’s uniform with a gray chauffer’s hat—an outfit clearly borrowed from their parents’ driver—and a giant sign saying “Welcome Back Cassie!” in hot pink font, with several pink hearts and a poor rendering of a butterfly. Cas felt himself relaxing, a smile already widening in his face, as he approached his older brother.  
  
“I’m surprised you’re not hung-over,” he said.  
  
“You can’t get a hangover if you don’t go to sleep!” Gabriel announced, sweeping him into an overly-enthusiastic hug. “You know half this room thinks we’re into some serious kink, and the other half thinks you’re having a gay-love affair with your wife’s driver.”  
  
“Must you always be so filthy?” Cas griped, but gripped his brother back.  
  
“C’mon, I can’t wait to show you my car. Ralph’s been shitting a brick over it.”  
  
“Did—”  
  
“Nope—didn’t tell them. Mike’s in Aspen for some conference, Lou’s in London, Ralph’s...I don’t actually know where Ralph is, but I don’t think he’s here, and Ma’s still in Italy.”  
  
“And...Dad?”  
  
“MIA, per the usual.” Gabe grinned to lighten the sting that left on both of them and tossed an arm around his brother’s shoulders. “Damn it’s good to see you back here. The boys good?”  
  
“Sam and Dean are at the house,” he said shortly.  
  
“You mean your house.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
Gabriel frowned slightly but left it alone as they walked out into the parking lot. “Check it!” he said happily, stopping in front of a bright yellow Lexus convertible. “Only five hundred in the world, and Paris Hilton is cruising around in a white model.”  
  
“You are unbelievable.”  
  
“Heard that before. Although it’s usually from a lady who’s just had a ride inside out and backwards.”  
  
Cas groaned. “To borrow a line from Sam—no brother sex. Please.”  
  
“Dean would appreciate it. Think he’d trade this baby for his? I can’t get that damn girl out of my mind. She’s a work of art. That man of yours, he should start a business. I’d pay a fortune for one just like it.”  
  
Cas didn’t answer. He ran his hand over the yellow paint and thought of the Impala’s black front, soft leather seats, and Dean’s obsessive need to ensure her wellbeing. And yet, Cas bet he’d have driven her into McCloud if the opportunity had presented.  
  
“You hungry?” Gabe said cheerfully.  
  
“I could eat.”  
  
“Hop in. Wait ‘till you see where I’ve got us lunching. Don’t get me wrong—your life out there is charming as can be. But back here? We’re Morgans, and we’re gonna live like them.”  


***

  
The great thing about having a smoopy, talky, emo, girly brother like Sam is Dean never had to ask for, or show, his own need.  
  
When they were still sharing a room, if Dean had a nightmare, or was aching from a few blows from a drunken Dad, or had caught a bug or cold, he could always count on Sammy dragging the quilt off his own bed and padding across the space between them before burrowing into Dean’s back with a mumbled “I’m cold,” or “I don’t feel good,” or “Dean, I had a dream.”  
  
And then, and _only_ then, could Dean roll over and clutch his brother to his chest and tell them both what he himself longed to hear—that everything was going to be okay. Sam never pointed out that it was Dean who needed _him_ , and not the other way around, just dutifully swallowed his own pride and, up into his early teens, would find his way to Dean’s bed on his big brother’s worst nights.   
  
So, when Cas had huffed out in his little hissy-fit, and Sam had picked at the dinner he’d made, and then hesitantly asked Dean if, he didn’t mind, he could, maybe, make a floor-bed, in his room, Dean knew it wasn’t all for Sammy’s own fears. It was easy enough to unfold the sofabed, coax Sam into sweats and a t-shirt, and sit propped up on pillows while Sam made his normal sleep-migration from sitting up straight, to slouching, to slouching with head on Dean’s shoulder, to laying back awkwardly propped, to falling asleep, to waking enough to cuddle against Dean’s leg.  
  
Dean had stopped teasing him when he’d gone into treatment: even if Sam’s clinginess made him squirm at times, or even feel a rise of frustration, irritation, _suffocation_ —he knew now he couldn’t let on. Sam was trusting him to carry all the weight he’d previously let the addiction hoist, and if he had to, then so be it. He’d carry anything if it meant Sammy would be alive for a good long while.  
  
And, in his most honest moments, he knew that it wasn’t all bad: that he secretly thrived on feeling needed, feeling that he _could_ help, and shield, and support the ones he loved. That, just as little Sammy had somehow known, if he was given something needing his protection and reassurance, it doubled his own resolve to keep their little world close and safe.  
  
When Cas left, Dean stayed under the Impala, turning and unturning and returning her belly as if there were something wrong when, in fact, he knew she was as perfect as he’d built her to be. In a way, he’d reconstructed her from, and _of,_ painful times—he’d spotted her frame when he turned twenty-one, a mere two months after Bobby and Ellen had told him he could have any car he wanted, and all the supplies he needed, to make his dream vehicle, and only three months after their Dad had smashed a bottle of Jack over Sam’s head and left his brother bleeding on the kitchen floor. When he’d found her, Sam was with his physical therapist, and he’d barely had an hour before they had to attend a pain management seminar. He’d had such a perfect vision of what she could be, that, for the first time in _weeks_ , he’d felt like _himself_. A man who was more than a dutiful son, a protective big brother. He’d had a brief image of an open road, a rock cassette, and rooms full of people who didn’t know him. A clean start in a new world.  
  
And then he thought of Sam’s bald, stitched head, and the way he’d hide his eyes in Dean’s shirts when the crippling migraines hit, and felt not only guilt, but the savage ache of separation.  
  
And then, even _more_ miraculously, he’d been able to envision Sam in the car, sitting on the white leather bench seat by his side, healthy and happy, with his dumb hair and over-expressive eyes, and it was brighter than a green light on a pitch-black Midwest street.  
  
“This one,” he’d told Bobby, beaming. And then took off to collect his kid brother.  
  
And so when Cas left, Dean was turning and unturning and returning bolts and screws that really didn’t need to be adjusted, up until Sam’s sneakers appeared beside him and Sam gave his little throat clearing that always meant ‘I’m here but don’t want to bother you.’ Dean slid out from under his car and grinned.  
  
“I thought you’d say bye,” Sam said.  
  
“I’m working.” He eyed the drink in his brother’s hand. “You bring that to share?”  
  
“It’s for you.”  
  
“Awesome. I’m dying here.” He reached out eagerly for the chilled glass, just beginning to sweat, and took a big gulp. “Mmm. I didn’t know we had lemonade.”  
  
“I made it.”  
  
“Shutup.”  
  
“Lemons, sugar, and water, Dean. It’s not astrophysics.”  
  
“You’re so full of it.”   
  
“You like it?”  
  
Sammy was beaming—that dumb little brother thing that made Dean feel ten stories high. He took another deliberate sip, and forced Cas out of his mind.  
  
“It’s okay,” he said, tossing Sam a wink before handing the glass back. “Find me a box wrench, would you?”  
  


***

  
Gabe hit the highway out of JFK airport at a speed that would have made Dean cringe. Cas gripped the edge of his seat and eyed the road around them frantically.  
  
“She can go zero to one-twenty in fifteen seconds!” Gabe shouted over the wind rushing through the open windows (Cas had forced him to put the top up). He peeled off his chauffer’s cap and propped his knees up, unbuttoning the gray coat to reveal he was shirtless beneath.  
  
“Gabriel—”  
  
“Yeah, sorry, I didn’t have time to change!”  
  
“Please watch the road. And slow down.”  
  
“We’re good.” Shirtless, Gabe placed his hands back on the wheel and swung the car abruptly into the right lane, passing several honking trucks before swinging back in front of them. “Chillax!” he shouted at the horns, fumbling in the backseat for a blue silk shirt. “Take the wheel for a sec, okay?”  
  
“What—” But Gabriel had already let go and was yanking the shirt—buttoned and all—over his head, fumbling with the collar while he was effectively blinded.  
  
“Fuckin’ Hillfigger—” the elder Morgan grumbled. Cas clutched desperately at the wheel, heart racing as the bumper of the car in front of them drew closer and closer and his brother’s head remained wrapped up.  
  
“Gabriel, please—”  
  
“One sec bro, I can’t see a damn—ha!” His head poked through the top. “I’ve been enlighted! Holy crap, Cas, give me the damn wheel,” he spun them into the left lane amidst another storm of honking, and then back in front of the car they’d nearly hit. His shirt now gathered around his neck like a scarf while his knees resumed steering once more and he struggled with the sleeves. Cas’ heart was racing. He remembered, long ago, when Sam first began having panic attacks, sitting beside the younger man, placing a gentle hand over his heart and another at his back, walking him through diaphragmatic breathing. He rather wished he could remember what he’d told him right then.  
  
“‘Enlighted’ is not a word,” he said instead.  
  
“Is too.”  
  
“‘Enlightened.’”  
  
“Right, enlighted’s Latin big bro, meaning to realize something big and important. ‘Enlighted’ means to see literal light.”  
  
“You’re making that up.”  
  
“Sounds good though doesn’t it?” he grinned, finally pulling his shirt down and turning the rearview mirror toward him so he could fix his hair. “ _Damn_ I look good in blue.”  
  
“Gabe, _please_. The _road_.”  
  
“I’ve driven this with my eyes half-closed.” He swept them around a semi-truck, flipping the driver off when he honked.  
“Trust me. I play Mario Kart like, twice a week with this guy from the Bronx. Flood. You got to meet him.”  
  
“His name is Flood?”  
  
“Well I think it’s actually Mark or something, but we all call him Flood. Here’s our exit!” he swooped hard to the right, causing more horns and a screech of brakes. Cas put his face in his hands and groaned.  
  
“Gabriel,” he pleaded, “I’d prefer not to die on this highway.”  
  
“Don’t you worry, baby boy. Uncle Gabe’s got this.”  
  
This, Cas lamented, was his brother. Not on drugs.

***

  
Sam made burgers and tater tots for lunch. He didn’t eat much of it, but Dean didn’t comment—he knew the big sap had only made it for him. Afterward, while Dean showered, Sam made up a schedule of movies that would be on after dinner. But, while Dean showered, he was suddenly hit with a bolt of brilliance—a way to get both their minds off of the dumbass who’d bolted on them, and have a day of good, old fashioned, Winchester-brother-bonding.  
  
Dean changed and came bounding down the steps two at a time, so proud of himself he could barely contain himself. Sam smiled at him.  
  
“So,” he said. “On ABC there’s—”  
  
“Want to go to Merrymeade?”  
  
Sam dropped the paper. “I haven’t heard that name in years. Is it even still there?”  
  
“Wanna find out?”  
  
“Let me look it up—”  
  
Dean crossed the room and slammed the laptop shut. “No way. We’re doing this old school. You and me and the road.”  
  
“It’s an hour away!”  
  
“You got a ball to get to, Princess?”  
  
Sam’s lips turned upward. “Really?”  
  
“Go grab a leak, I’ll grab the map.”  
  
Sam’s grin widened. Dean felt sixteen again: strong, tall, and the best damn brother on the planet.  
  
Dean didn’t need a map and Sam didn’t need the bathroom and, five minutes later, they were on the road out of town.   
  


***

  
It seemed the whole restaurant not only knew Gabriel, but wanted to hug or kiss or grab him. He greeted everyone with identical enthusiasm: hugging, kissing, thumping away on shoulders and backs, and half throwing Cas into everyone with equal delight. As a teenager, Gabe’s overzealous behavior had irritated him endlessly, but as an adult, he’d grown a bit jealous of it: his brother’s delight and enthusiasm for people was genuine, and infectious, just as his obvious pride to have Cas back by his side.  
  
“This here’s Cas,” he told each person he met, “my brainy kid bro who spends his days and nights saving lives. So he’s stressed and needs a little TLC, ‘kay?”  
  
Lunch consisted of fare Cas hadn’t tasted since their parents’ chef— Lobster Bolognese, smoked ricotta fritters, roasted marrow bones, lamb meatballs. It was oddly comforting and homey, as was the bustle of the city below them, the enormously polite wait-staff, and Gabe’s incessant, goofy chatter. Cas had no reason to feel ill at ease here.  
  
And yet...he did. He’d always felt more comfortable serving than being served, and somehow the small, cheap, and often smoky diners and eateries the Winchesters tended toward had felt more welcoming than his family’s lifestyle ever had. He could, maybe, in his pre-addiction days, picture Sam here, but never Dean: Dean needed space to be loud and twitchy and funny and _relaxed_. He got nervous trying to make good impressions and never looked right in formal attire. He was best in a t-shirt and jeans, sweaty and under a car. Grinning and wiping his hands. Paying for Cas’ cab when he was just a stranger. Grumbling at him in the morning. Smiling at him over dinner. Bellowing he was hungry from the back of the house.  
  
“Cas...where’s your head?”  
  
Cas turned back to his brother. Gabe was drinking some sort of high-priced microwbrew, and grinned when the mustache left a foam.  
  
“Here. It’s...it’s good to be here again.”  
  
“Bull.” Gabriel grabbed up a fritter and chewed it like a french fry. “Don’t get me wrong—mi casa es su casa. I’m really happy you came out. But it wasn’t because you missed me that bad. You wanna tell me what’s up?”  
  
“Not here.”  
  
“’Kay.” Gabe took another drink. “So, what’re you in the mood for tonight?”  
  
“Do you remember the story you told me of that camp in the Hamptons and where the one boy kept harassing Lou?”  
  
“I remember Mike taking that kid to town and getting grounded for most of eternity.”  
  
“But was he right?”  
  
“He was a kid. They were both kids. Mike’s a dick, but he doesn’t like anyone bugging his family. Especially his little Louie.”  
  
“But do you think he was _right_?”  
  
Gabe gently sat his glass down and softened his smile. “I think you need something from me, and you’re trying to get it, but bro, I can’t help until I’ve got the big picture.”  
  
Cas felt, for the first time since he’d heard of McCloud’s assault and arrest, close to tears. “It’s a dark picture, Gabriel,” he managed.  
  
“And that was melodramatic as hell, but I’m gonna let it go and get the check and get us out of here.” He flagged down their waiter, dropped his card on the plate, and kicked Cas’s shin under the table. “C’mon, bucko. Drop the sour face. I got your back. Whatever it is, we’ll work it out.”  
  
When Dean said that, Cas believed it. When Gabe said it, all he could think of was his father and his brothers and endless hours of hurt and dysfunction and, for once in his life, the slivering chill of questioning his own decisions, trusting his own instincts, and the terror of thinking that the life he built may have, in fact, been all wrong wrong wrong.

***

Dean ordered his usual: one scoop of Blueberry Bonananza, one scoop of Apple Blast, and one scoop of Death by Chocolate Peanut-Butter Ripple, with whipped cream, peanuts, chocolate sprinkles, all in a mega-sugar cone.Sam had always ordered a small dish of frozen yogurt, and actually blushed when he deferred and asked for two scoops of vanilla ice cream—an order Dean quickly added M&Ms and Reese’s pieces to.  
  


Sam might have sworn at him, but sitting on a wooden bench watching Sammy plowing through it, Dean felt, yet again, that he deserved the Lifetime Achievement Award for Best Brother.

  
“It’s better than I remember,” Sam moaned, chasing a bit of chocolate through the melted vanilla milk at the bottom of his dish.  
  
“Because there’s actual fat and flavor in real ice cream,” Dean grinned. Sam huffed.  
  
“That corn maze,” he said, indicating the field across from them, “scared the life out of me as a kid. Especially the scarecrows at each dead-end.”  
  
“I took you through that a few times. I don’t remember you being scared.” Sam blushed. Dean reached over and pinched his cheek. “Awww, lil’ Sammy knew his big bro had him.”  
  
“Screw you,” Sam grumbled, but couldn’t bring himself to look mad. He sighed, contently, looking around at the petting zoo, the cow pasture, the dairy barn, and the ice-cream shop. Added to that had been a pumpkin patch, hay jump, “General Store,” and craft shop. What had been a small dairy farm with an ice-cream shop and seasonal corn maze was now a little tourist village. “Man...I haven’t thought of this place in years.”  
  
“Me neither,” Dean sighed, so full he could puke, just like the good ol’ days. “I remember you were terrified of llamas, clowns, and the fake cow that moved its head.”  
  
“And you nearly wet your pants whenever a guide dressed in cowboy gear sauntered by,” Sam grinned.  
  
“Did not.”  
  
“Did too.”  
  
“Whatever. I liked horses. You were scared of llamas. Friggin’ _llamas._ ”  
  
“Their necks are weird.” Sam gave a mock shiver. Dean chuckled. “We should get a gallon or two from inside before we go. What’s Cas’ favorite?”  
  
“Who cares?” Dean reached up, yanked a twig off a nearby tree, and tossed it casually.  
  
“Dean...do you want to talk about it?”  
  
“About ice cream?”  
  
“About Cas taking off.”  
  
“He went to see Gabe. You met him. That dude should have a keeper.”  
  
“It’s okay if you’re mad at me.”  
  
Dean glanced at him, sighed, and kicked lightly at the fence. “Look, man. I know what you guys think. But I didn’t go in there, guns blazing, without considering other options or the consequences. I did. And I knew there was one way that sonofabtich would see justice, and it wasn’t through a lawyer. Not for us, Sam.” He turned and met his brother’s gaze. “I will say this every day for the rest of my life if that’s what you need, but _you didn’t have a choice_. You did what you thought you had to. For survival. I can live with that. But that McCloud sonofabitch felt he could flaunt it. He felt he could just stroll in and out of a bar with our lives in his hand.”  
  
“I had a choice,” Sam said. “I just chose what he had in his pockets over you.”  
  
It hurt—it wouldn’t ever _not_ hurt. But Dean wouldn’t let it show. “And? You were sick, starving, thirsty, in withdrawal, and on the street. Of course you’d choose him. That gives him no right to overrule any of your life before and since. I won’t let him.”  
  
“So what, it’s worth _your_ life, Dean? What if he talks?”  
  
“He won’t.”  
  
“How do you know?”  
  
“Because he would have already.”  
  
“Maybe he’s not recovered enough to have a lawyer. Maybe when he does he’ll get one and he’ll bargain.”  
  
“Bargain for what? Ten years less of prison in exchange for the name of who beat him up? They’re not after who did it. They’re after _him._ Multi-millionaire astride an empire, corrupting youth. Sells way more papers than the grease-monkey who slugged him around.”  
  
Sam was quiet for a long minute. Then: “Dad always ordered Coffee Chocolate Chip.”  
  
“And always had us taste one another’s,” Dean said seamlessly. Before drink had swallowed John whole, this had been his favorite spot to bring his boys. _After_ drink had swallowed John whole, this had been his favorite spot to make it up to his boys.  
  
“You ever miss him?” Sam chanced.  
  
“No,” Dean lied.  
  
“I can’t help but wonder...if he knew where I’d ended up, would he have listened to Missouri? Done better? Or just drank harder?”  
  
“Does it matter?”  
  
“That’s what Andy’s Dad’s doing. They’re recovering together.”  
  
“I wouldn’t have let Dad within fifty feet of that center and you know it.”  
  
It was true. After John had smacked the bottle over Sam’s head, there had been no forgiveness for him from Dean’s end, no matter how hard Sam pressed.  
  
“Don’t you ever look at me and think you’re looking at him?”  
  
“Never.” Dean tossed an arm around his larger—but still _little_ —brother and tugged him close. “You’re Sam,” he murmured. “He’s Dad. I get that you may have overlapped in addiction. But you saw your problems and came back.”  
  
“Not at first.”  
  
“So? There’s no statute of limitations on recovery, Sammy.”  
  
“Dad couldn’t do it. Why? What was different?”  
  
“You tell me.”  
  
Sam blushed—from his neck to his hair. He scuffed his feet against the dirt path. “You,” he grumbled. It honestly wasn’t what Dean was expecting, but he felt a warmth and pride stirred in him all the same as he tugged his brother closer.  
  
“And nothing bad’s going to happen to you.”  
  
“To us?”  
  
“To us,” he amended.  
  
And Cas be damned: when Sam leaned against his side, Dean felt whole. 

***

  
Getting into Gabriel’s apartment took close to an hour.  
  
Gabe greeted everyone: parking attendants, doormen, the super, the plumber, the head of the co-op board, the hot woman on the fifth floor, the Jewish grandma on the tenth floor, the old man with the dog on the sixth floor, three cleaning women from varied floors, and his neighbor, a Broadway producer who promised him backstage passes and gave him a rough, manly hug.  
  
And of course, in addition to Gabe chatting each of them up, came the introduction of Cas, the prodigal brother.  
By the time they made it inside, all Cas wanted to do was sit on the couch and have some slight amount of quiet. Or, at least, mindless chatter.  
  
But once inside, he felt like he’d been dragged into the red room at the Playboy mansion.  
  
“You are unbelievable,” he sighed.  
  
“I know,” Gabe said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Want a drink?”  
  
“Gabriel—”  
  
“C’mon. You can be off the wagon without the boys around.” He nearly skipped behind the long, sleek, black bar with the glittering shelves at the back of the apartment, its leather chairs and wide, marble top glimmering against the red walls and the varied animal print furniture and big, bold paintings. Cas’ eyes drifted over the ridiculous displays as Gabe fussed and finally stood at attention with a grin and glass.  
  
“You were drinking at lunch.”  
  
“Psh. I’m not working for any tokens. C’mon. Got a nice Chardonnay. I know you like it. Nice and light.”  
  
Cas had paused at a small, framed picture on a black end table: one where a ten year old Gabriel held a newborn Cas, beaming up at the camera while, behind him, Ralph, Lou, and Michael stood smiling as well.  
  
“Know you were too much of a tadpole to remember that,” Gabe said, filling a glass almost to the top with white wine, “but Mom and Dad said I could hold you first, because I’d been the one waiting on a little brother the longest.”  
  
“I was an...odd looking baby.”  
  
“Lou said you looked like you had Down syndrome until you were six months old. You kind of did.” Gabe took a gulp of Cas’ wine, made a face, plunked the glass down, and shuffled around until he came up with a beer. “But then you got all chubby and cute.”  
  
Cas took a seat at the bar stood and sipped the chilled wine slowly. “I forgot how I used to enjoy this,” he sighed.  
  
“You can without guilt, kiddo. Though I admire your sacrifice to them, it’s their issues, not yours.” Gabriel took a long gulp of his beer and leaned across the counter. “Okay. Pretend this place is dark and smoky. Hank Williams is playing. You’re looking for a friend, and here comes Gabe, the best damn bartender on Earth. C’mon and lay it on me, I’ve heard it all.”  
  
“Brother, I doubt you’ve heard this.”

***

  
They stopped for pizza on the way home. Dean ordered one with spinach and broccoli and peppers—Sam’s usual health parade. As much as he’d teased him before the addition, it relieved him to see Sammy reengaging with good nutrition and his own physical, as well as mental, well-being.   
  
Sam had his Gatorade and Dean had a Pepsi and they dimmed the lights and ate on the floor like they had as kids, watching a stupid movie about a football and cheerleading squad stuck on a stranded bus getting attacked by unnamed monsters. Sammy was laughing at Dean’s indignant shouts, and eating like he had a real appetite, and Dean felt so warm and complete for the first time in so long, it was hard to even think of Cas.  
  
“You know what I would do?” he bellowed. “I would light the whole damn field on fire.”  
  
“With your friends in the bus?”  
  
“They’re not friends. That dumbass just chilled while his ‘friend’ got his head chomped on.”  
  
“So you’d burn down the field, and then—”  
  
“No, I’d light up...something, and toss it, so the field lit up. Then I’d haul ass out of it. Then I’d get to the side of the road and if any of those sonofabitches tried anything, I would kick their dumb asses back to whatever dimension or nuclear reactor they crawled out of.”  
  
Sam fell instantly silent at that, staring at the TV with unnatural interest. At the next commercial break, Dean hit ‘mute’ on the remote and said “alright—spit it out.”  
  
“Are you going to call Cas?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“But...we don’t even know if he landed safely.”  
  
“He’s fine. Gabe’s got him.”  
  
“Will he come back?”  
  
“That’s on him.”  
  
“Dean—”  
  
“This is not your fault. Whatever crap Cas has to work through, let him work through it on his own.”  
  
“But you _love_ him, Dean.”  
  
“Sam, I’m going to say this once. There’s others and there’s you, and whatever I have to do to keep you safe, I’m gonna do, and I’m gonna do it without anyone else’s moaning.”  
  
“I know you will. But...don’t you think it’s fair that Cas would be freaked to see you do that? I mean...you haven’t hurt anyone or stolen anything since you met him.”  
  
“So what? He knows I have. He saw us pounding on each other.”  
  
“I was high.”  
  
“I was drunk.”  
  
Sam let out a noise that nearly broke Dean’s heart. The movie resumed and he ignored it, scooting closer to his brother and nudging him with his shoulder. “Hey,” he snapped. “I never, _ever_ should have told you not to come back. I—”  
  
“You were trying to save me,” Sam said. “You were trying to keep me from walking out that door. You were trying to keep me from Crowley—McCloud—whatever his name is. And...I know...Dean, please don’t give up on Cas.”  
  
“I’m not the one giving up.”  
  
“He really has worked so hard for the both of us. He may need some convincing now. He—”  
  
“Sammy, I need you to shut your mouth. Cas isn’t us, alright? He came out of his Ivory Tower to slum and whether he likes what we are or not is up to him.”  
  
“Please don’t let go of the best relationship you’ve ever had because of me,” Sam pleaded. Dean unmuted the TV.  
  
“They never should have left the damn bus,” he said, as the corn fields rippled and the creatures closed in.  
  


***

Gabriel was unusually subdued.

  
He tried—he took them out to dinner, hugged and kissed and clapped hands, but it was nothing like the enthusiasm of lunch. He drank—more than Cas would have liked—and told stories, but there was a listlessness that hadn’t been there before Cas had related the story of McCloud, Balthazzar, the bar, Sam, and, of course—Dean.  
  
Always Dean.  
  
Back at the apartment, Gabe switched between water and whiskey, and then, finally, sank onto the couch and muted the news Cas was absorbed in.  
  
“I’m sorry, bro,” he said. “I’m just...trying to get my head around all this.”  
  
“There’s no getting it all, Gabriel,” Cas sighed. “I can’t grasp it myself. I took Dean out for a great burger and ended up living with a vicious assailant and his brother, the drug-addicted _prostitute_.”  
  
“Shutup.” Gabe launched to his feet. “Listen, Cas—I get that you’re struggling. And I just met those kids once. But... _don’t go there._ ”  
  
“I’m saying the truth.”  
  
“You sound like Mike. You sound like Ralph. You sound like _Lou_.”  
  
Cas felt himself flinch. “How could you. You know—”  
  
“I know you love those guys. I know I have never seen you happier, or more relaxed, or more at ease with _anyone_ than I have seen you with Dean. And I know that Sam, whatever mistakes he’s made, doesn’t have an evil _cell_ in his overgrown body. And I know you know it too.”  
  
“You don’t know anything about them. About my life with them,” Cas snapped.  
  
“I know a few things about _you_ though.” Gabe sank onto his ridiculous zebra striped love seat and propped his feet up on the end. “First of all, you don’t see shades of gray. No, you’re not as bad as Mike or Ralph, but you don’t do well with philosophical or moral questioning. Never have. You ace science and math and grammar quizzes. But you know Lou and me? We ran circles around you guys when it came to tear-jerking essays on Russian lit and why lions love the lambs they kill.”  
  
“What are you saying?”  
  
“That Dean’s challenged your worldview, and you don’t like it. You’ve never liked it.”  
  
“I left home, which is more than I can say for you.”  
  
“I’ve got my own moral compass. Yeah, it might be far away from due north, but it’s hanging strong. And Cas...so does Dean. His conventions aren’t yours. You know this. He’s been honest about this.”  
  
“But I’ve never _seen_ it.”  
  
“You saw it with Sam.”  
  
“Not like this. Not with someone...outside the family. And never so violently.”  
  
“He was defending his own.”  
  
“I can’t believe you’re siding with him.”  
  
“Cas, I’m just trying—”  
  
“You accuse me of being like our brothers, then you accuse me of _not_ being like you.”  
  
“I’m not accusing—”  
  
“I’m going to bed.”  
  
In the guest room—surprisingly plain, with whites and a small flat-screen TV and a dark blue bed-spread, Cas yanked out the pajamas he’d brought before ducking into the shower. He refused to study his face in the mirror and instead dressed quickly, turned off the lights, and yanked back the tightly made sheets.  
  
He’d forgotten how bright the city was at night. He rose once more, drew the blinds, and got back under the covers.  
  
He’d forgotten that the sound of passing cars never stopped. That light made it in past every filter. That an empty bed was cold.  
  
 _Dude,_ Dean said, _quit thinking so damn loud. You’re keeping me up._  
  
Dean wasn’t a cuddler. Neither was Cas. But this was the moment Dean’s hand was supposed to rest on his chest. Or his arm was to circle his waist.  
  
He got up and checked his phone. He had no missed calls.  
  


***

Sam woke feeling heat, flames and coffins and open graves in his mind. Trying so hard to run, to scream, and just moving slower and slower; no air to power his voice. He fights the hands holding him tight, the resistance against his struggles, thinking that, if he can just break free, he can save those he loves.  
  


“Shh, Sammy, shh,” Dean’s whispering against him. Sam finally hears his brother, _feels_ his brother, and goes limp. Dean’s a warm, solid force over him, gently freeing his wrists, smoothing back his hair. “I know, buddy. I’m here, we’re alright. Easy does it.”

“Dean,” he sobs.

“Right here.”

Sam opens his eyes. He’s on the pull-out couch at Dean’s and Cas’, the streetlights coming through the front windows. Dean’s beside him, rubbing his head, a broad hand on his chest, anchoring him in place.

“We’re okay?” he manages, feeling his throat closing. His big brother smiles.

“We’re good, Sammy.” Dean’s hand moves through his hair, thumb brushing over his forehead. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

Sam hated the helpless, weak little noise that escaped his throat. Dean eased off him, lay beside him, let Sam curl against his still denim-clad leg, without a word of protest.

It wasn’t in Dean’s nature to let people cuddle into him: Sam knew that. But it _was_ in Dean’s nature to give Sam what he needed, and if what he needed was to snuggle against his big brother, than Dean would give him that.

“M’sorry,” he whimpers, and wishes, suddenly, for Cas. Cas’ calm, authoritvate explanations always helped reinforce Dean’s comfort. And, though he knew his elder brother would die before admitting it, he knew it helped Dean tremendously to not have to shoulder the emotional burden alone.

“Shhh,” Dean soothes, pressing Sam’s head against his thigh and smoothing his hair. “I know, buddy. Don’t worry.”

Sam really, _really_ hates, that in one of his brother’s immense moments of devotion, that he’s letting his mind wander to Cas. And it’s not that Dean’s not enough—because he’s always been everything—or that Cas fills a deficiency. It’s just...that Sam misses the calm, the reassurance, the steadfastness devotions Cas had displayed toward them. Without asking anything in return.

But that’s what Cas did—that’s what Dean did. Looked after him without a thought for themselves. Gave and gave and gave no matter what insanity Sam laid at their feet.

Cas was _good_ for Dean. He made him laugh. He brought a steady, calm, rational approach to all their issues. He provided for him financially. He showed him appreciation and affection. He supported him through grief and guilt and Sam’s addiction. Dean was calmer, and lighter, and _happier_ with Cas than he’d ever been with anyone else.

Sam couldn’t let the mutually shared stubbornness of his blood and adopted brothers keep them from having the relationship they’d always wanted. He _wouldn’t_.

“Bro,” Dean muttered, “quit thinking so damn loud and go to sleep.”

Sam thinks of endless nights alone in rehab—in lockdown, in Rosemount, in the halfway house. The endless nights on the phone with Dean and Cas, their unshakeable faith and comfort and promises of help, their open door and open arms. They’d given him everything, and now that he was well, it was time to give back.

He curls into the warmth and strength and protection of his brother, and lets Dean murmur him off to sleep. 

***

  
That night, across the country, Cas jerked awake, fumbling for his phone.  
  
“It’s Cas,” he mumbled. Silence. “Sam? Y’okay?”  
  
The dial tone rang. No one had been on the other end.  
  
He had no missed calls.


	2. Chapter 2

Gabe takes them to a Champagne brunch to kick off their Sunday.

  
And sure, lots of people had bubbly brunches. But this one cost almost a thousand dollars for the two of them. Gabe didn’t even blink when he dropped the check. Cas did. All he could think was-- _that's fifty co-pays for Sam's Valium, a month of Dean's share of the mortgage, eight sessions with Missouri, a vacation he and Dean could never take._   
  
It was obvious, but it still hit him suddenly: without his contributed finacial support, Sam would never be able to afford his ongoing treatment. Dean would have to sell their little house. Sam would have to work full-time in order to get health insurance, and then find an in-network therapist--meaning no more Missouri. No more Alan. No more halfway house with Ash and Andy. Even if Ellen and Bobby helped--as they had when Sam had had his head smashed by their father's bottle and Dean had been trying to emancipate them--his financial abscence would severely affect their lives.  
  
Of course...he could always continue to send checks. Even if Dean didn't cash them. At least that would be on Dean, not him. It wasn't like they had written agreements. No court could fault him.  
  
 _You sound like Michael. You sound like Ralph. You sound like Lou._  
  
Cas accepted a glass of champange and drank it very, very quickly.  
  
Gabe was in his element: he drank and ate and introduced Cas to the director of this and the president of that and the chief of this and the consultant of that, and gave his faire share of hugs and promises for charitable checks.  
  
Cas couldn't take it all in. Champagne this early made him dizzy and light-headed, and the immense marble columns around the dining hall felt cold and made the sound of chatter echo. He missed his small kitchen--Dean scrambling eggs, Sam making coffee. The three of them in pajama bottoms and t-shirts, talking plans for the day. Feeling relaxed, out of suits and collars and ties and real shoes. Away from _impressions_.  
  
He and Gabe had taken their seats, eaten poached eggs with fresh-ground pepper, french toast with cinnamon  
-butter, had their glasses refreshed, and been back on the floor circling among the guests. Gabe had been chatting away and, quite sudddenly, dropped his glass, straightened his shirt, and darted across the room to a beautiful, olive skinned woman, with dark hair and eyes and slim frame, who merely cocked her eyebrow at Gabriel and barely glanced at Cas.  
  
“Kali, meet my brother, Cas. Cas, this is Kali. She’s the founder and President of the Rubin Museum and on the boards of MOMA and the Met, and pretty much a consultant to every other major New York City cultural institution.”  
  
“Your brother,” the woman said as she shook Cas’ hand, “prides himself in being one of the only people living who can make me laugh And one of four people on Earth I allow to call me Kali.”  
  
"That's Kali with an 'I', not a double-l-y."  
  
"It's Kalista to those I allow on a first name basis. And Ms. Patel to the rest."  
  
“Kali’s a consummate professional. There’s no getting a rise out of her.”  
  
“And yet, you have. On the... _rare_ occasion.” Kali smiled and sipped her champagne. “It’s good to see you, Gabriel.” She briefly rested a perfectly manicured hand on his arm before moving off into the crowd. Gabriel tossed back his glass like it was a shot and reached for another.  
  
“You’re in love with her,” Cas said, awestruck.  
  
“What’s love got to do with it?” Gabriel winked.  
  
“You’re in _love_ , Gabe.” All the years Cas had sat through tales of his brother’s exploits, he couldn’t ever remember a woman coming _close_ to felling him. There were second, third, and fourth rounds of lust, sure—but not the nerves, the slight blush, and the amazingly gentlemanly behavior he’d just demonstrated.  
  
“I don’t know what I am around her, kid.” He tossed back his second glass. “But whatever it is, it sucks.”  
  
He slammed his empty glass down on the next available silver tray and bolted for the bar. Kali had taken the arm of a white man with dark hair and was allowing herself to be escorted to the exit.  
  
Morgans, it seemed, had many advantages. But being loved was not among them.

***

  
Dean made them breakfast--scrambled eggs, white toast and bacon.  
  
Sam made coffee, started a load of laundry, and laid a light hand on Dean’s back while he cooked, causing his brother to squirm out of his support. They had work to do, Dean said. The upstairs sink had been leaking. The downstairs toilet kept running. The Impala needed better fuel. And Sam needed decent shoes.  
  
Sam could raise a great fuss when he wanted. But he could also be a great wingman—and kid brother—when duty called.  
  
So when Dean called for clean dishes, Sam did them. When Dean called for wrenches, Sam handed them. When Dean called for Sam to be downstairs, Sam went.  
  
Dean wasn’t one to call for comfort, reassurance, and devotion. But Sam was going to give and get that for him too, or be damned to the bowels of hell trying.  
  
“Dean—” he tried when they were settled in the Impala crusing toward the mall.  
  
“Don’t ‘Dean’ me,” Dean snapped.  
  
“But—“  
  
“Don’t 'but' me.”  
  
“Please—”  
  
“Don’t ‘please’ me. Just—shutup, alright? You’re getting new shoes, and we’re not calling Cas. I don’t _care_ , Sam.”  
  
Sam checked his phone. It appeared, from his lack of texts and calls, that Cas didn’t really care either.  
  
And if that hurt way, way more than he wanted it to, he couldn't imagine how torn Dean and Cas were feeling, no matter how well they hid it.  
  
And it was his fault. That's what he did, right? Wreck lives? End good things? Tear up families? Leave his brother hurting and determined not to show the hurt? Leaving Cas writing check after check, emptying his bank account to try and keep him sane?  
  
 _You think like that_ , Missouri's voice rang through him, _and you'll never recover. Cas doesn't qualify his self-worth in money: you can't either. This is his way of showing his love and support, and you got to allow him that. No one is as secure as they pretend to be._  
  


"Quit thinking about it, Sam. Shoes, lunch, home. What do you want to do for dinner?"

  
_I want you to call Cas so I can have my brothers back._  
  
But Sam just smiled and said "how about we grill?"

***

  
Back at Gabriel’s, Cas slumped in front of the television while Gabe grabbed a huge glass of water and slumped in front of the laptop. Cas wasn’t sure, at this point, what to do: should he call out Monday? Put in for leave? Resign? Talk frankly to Anna?  
  
He didn’t want to do any of it. If anything, he wanted to grab a big glass of Gabe’s cold wine and curl up on the couch and forget he’d ever met the Winchesters.  
  
“Bro,” Gabriel said, frowning at the laptop. “This is...bad. Listen to this: ‘international financier suspected of defrauding charities.’” He paused, scrolling loudly. “According to this, that McCloud guy would take accounts‘pro bono,’ claim finance fees and taxes, and skim money off the top.” He frowned. “Among his victims...several charitable trusts, four charitable foundations, three legal payments...including a settlement awarded to couple with a brain-damaged baby girl whose parents won a malpractice lawsuit because the doctor performing the C-Section was drunk.”  
  
“Is he recovering?” Cas asked dully.  
  
“Yeah, he’s fine. His lawyer’s are spewing crap about him being the victim and multiple assailants, but the Times says he’ll be out before we know it. Hear that? When a city in the Midwest makes the Sunday Times, the shit has hit the fan.”  
  
“Well, I’m sure Dean will be delighted to know he’ll finally be introduced to my extended family.”  
  
Gabe leaned back into his chair and slapped the computer shut. “Cas...I heard what you said. And let’s get this straight—you leave Dean, my guest room is your room. You go back? Call me when you land. You name it, you go it. I will always have your back. But...I like those guys. And, more importantly, you _love_ them. _Both_.”  
  
“I swore an oath,” Cas said firmly, “to protect and defend the innocent.”  
  
“No, bro, that’s what cops do. _You_ swore an oath to care for and treat the hurt and sick. That’s _exactly_ who that sonofabitch preyed on. He’d find kids on the street, like Sam was,” he said, eyeing him meaningfully, “and give them drugs for sex. He took money from people who trusted he wanted to help them. He stole from a _retarded baby’s legal settlement_.”  
  
“He’s still a human.”  
  
“ _Is_ he?” Gabriel crossed his arms. “Look...I’m the first to say ‘stick it to the Man,’ but I’m not about a free-for-all. Unless it’s at a bar and I’m in the middle of the free,” he winked. “But if Dean hadn’t knocked that sonofabitch out? He’d still be doing this shit. And it’s _wrong_ , Cas.”  
  
“What if Dean gets caught?” Cas managed.  
  
“He won’t.”  
  
“You don’t know that.”  
  
Gabe leaned forward. “Cas, I don’t doubt that he knows _exactly_ who beat him up.”  
  
“Then why hasn’t he told?”  
  
“You need to watch your ‘Criminal Minds.’”  
  
“I don’t understand.”  
  
Gabe put his hands out. “Here’s Dean,” he said, holding up an index finger. “Here’s Dean being taken to jail,” he bobbed the finger away. “Now, this?” he used his middle-finger to indicate Sam’s height, “is baby brother. Crying wee wee wee aaaaaaall the way to the cops.”  
  
“Sam would never want to implicate Dean.”  
  
“In that Podunk town of yours? Prosecuting an international criminal is this DA’s ticket to the big times. They want this evil asshole more than they want the grease-monkey who took him to town. And if this...McCloud squeals on his attacker, he gets little Sammy running after the squad car, willing to give gold-standard testimony in exchange for his big brother walking. So McCloud keeps his mouth shut, Dean’s a hero, Sam’s safe, and _you_ get your panties in a bunch.”  
  
“It’s not that simple, Gabriel.”  
  
“This round it is.”  
  
Cas turned away. Gabe crossed the distance between them, sank onto the sofa, and tossed an arm around his shoulder.  
  
“C’mon. Tell Mama.”  
  
“I don’t know why this bothers me.”  
  
“Yes, you do. You’re scared Dean is violent at heart.”  
  
Cas felt his throat closing. “Their father was.”  
  
“Their father didn’t give up drinking for his children. Dean gave it up for you and Sam.”  
  
“I still didn’t expect him to do this.”  
  
“I know. And it sucks.” Gabe clapped him on the shoulder so hard it hurt. “But you know what? It makes me feel better. Because that means your decision to hang out in Bumblefuck doesn’t mean you’re unprotected. Dean’s gonna look out for you, same as he’s looking out for Sam. And he’s not gonna lie and say he’ll do anything and not follow through.”  
  
“He took it upon himself to play that man’s judge and jury. After everything we’ve been through with Sam, trying to forge, as you say, a gray area of morality, he attacked that man like he was the blackest evil.”  
  
“God, Cas—” Gabriel shifted and seized his brother’s shoulders, forcing their eyes to meet. “Look at me. Be honest. Whatever way you go, I swear, I won’t love you less. But you’re telling me, that the sonofabitch who told Sam he’d shoot him if he didn’t drop his pants in an alley, doesn’t piss you off? Doesn’t make you wish you could take him down?”  
  
“Gabe—”  
  
“Think of Sam—sick and homeless and trying to find change to eat and maybe call his brother, and then at the mercy of that asshole's pistol, and that doesn’t _enrage_ you?”  
  
“It _does_!”  
  
“Do you think it enraged Dean?”  
  
“Of course!”  
  
“Do you think they should have called a lawyer, and the cops, and prosecuted him?”  
  
“I—yes. _Yes_. That’s how the system works. That’s—that’s how _justice_ works!”  
  
“And if it were Michael or Ralph on the judge and jury, would they have prosecuted McCloud?”  
  
“I—I don’t know. I don’t _know_ ,” Cas moaned, dropping his head forward, tears stinging his eyes. His brothers’ hand rubbed a circle on his back. “I don’t want them hurt. I don’t want Dean to feel he needs to avenge. I don’t want them to be _us_ , Gabe.”  
  
Gabriel sighed and rested his chin on Cas’ shoulder. “Listen to me, kiddo. I don’t have all the answers. No one does. The system means well—I believe that. But...I don’t think it allows for the love Dean’s trying for. His is a little more than tough--it’s more jungle-like. If the situations were reversed, I’d go to court for you, with lawyers and spokespeople and gorgeous high-def shots of this face, because we have the money and connections and degrees that our word wouldn’t be questioned. Those kids never had that. And...in this case...they may very well have brought someone to justice who never would have seen it otherwise.” Gabe took a slow, painful breath. “For the record...if Kali showed up saying she’d done something like that, for her sister...I’d get it. Maybe it's a big sibling thing. But Cas...you're one of us now. And you're doing great. It's not just Dean that loves you.”  
  
Cas did something he hadn’t since childhood: he turned and pressed his face into his brother’s neck. And then, finally, he cried. He cried for Dean, the man he'd fallen in love with, who'd never had the chance to explore his potential. He cried for Sam, the adopted kid-brother who'd done things so far beyond his comprehension that he couldn't even properly support him on a logical level. He cried for Gabriel, in love with a woman who would, he was sure, never accept him with the Dionysian lifestyle he lead.  
  
And he cried for himself, for knowing so many flawed people and having no idea how, exactly, to reconcile it all and love them best.  
  


***

Gabe ordered in for dinner, answering the door with "Flood!" and bumping chests with the delilvery man. "C'mon in, have a beer. You got time for a round?"  
  
"Brother, I do. Guess who just ordered a double-stuffed burriot and four margaritas to go? Give you a hint: she's on a show that starts with Sex and ends with City. Who's this?"  
  
"Cas!"  
  
"The little guy? He ain't so little."  
  
"I'm thirty-one," Cas said.  
  
"I'm Flood."  
  
"What is your real name?"  
  
"Flood. Mario Flood. But there's a bunch of Mario's in the family, so I just go by Flood."  
  
"You were baptised Mario Flood?"  
  
"Brother, I ain't been baptised."  
  
"Quit grilling him," Gabe chided, handing Flood a beeer and clinking glasses. "This man taught me everything I know. He drives that bike through Manhattan with the reflexes of a stealth pilot."  
  
"Your bro's a great student. Have you seen him take that highway? He rides it like it's an open sea. No near misses. Well, since--"  
  
"Yeah yeah, don't bore him!" Gabe said, a little too loudly. "Lamberghini's don't take corners well," he said to Cas. Anywho. You want me to fire up the 360?"  
  
"Nah, got to hit it." He leaned back and swallowed his beer in three humongous gulps. "But that just saved my soul a teeny bit."  
  
"Gotcha a water for the road."  
  
"You'll be stained in glass one day, brother." Gabe walked him to the door.  
  
"Say hi to the woman and the rugrat!" he called as Flood waved an disappeared down the hall to the elevator.  
  
"That was Flood!" Gabe said, after shutting the door.  
  
"You befriended the Mexican delivery man?"  
  
"I befriended the delivery man from the Mexican restaurant. Careful about that nose Cas, any higher and you're gonna get a bleed."

Cas ate without tasting while they watched the “hottest” comedy on Netflix. He showered, shaved, changed. Checked his phone. He had five saved messages. The first four were from the hospital. The last was from Sam.

Cas put off listening.

He wandered back out into the living room and accepted a drink from Gabe. They watched a standup comedian for awhile while Gabe’s phone buzzed and buzzed and he paused frequently to type with two thumbs and his beer dangling between his cupped lips.

“S’nice,” he mumbled once, and nearly lost his hold.

Cas finally took a deep breath and forced himself to return to his room for a one on with his lone message. The palms of his hands were a bit sweaty as he pressed one for 'listen.' He had no idea what would be on the other end, but he imagined it wouldn’t be without retribution, frustration, anger, and everything in between.

“Cas...it’s me. Sam. Winchester.” Cas couldn’t help but smile. It was so stupidly obvious, and yet so endearingly sweet and formal, and so very _Sam_ , that it brought an ache to his chest. “Listen...Dean would seriously kick my ass if he knew I was calling. But I just wanted to say...please don’t be angry at him. This is my fault. I never...I never wanted him to know. He’s not violent, Cas—you know it. But he’s protective. And I...I pushed his buttons.” He heard the younger man’s breath hitch. “I’m so sorry. I’ve come between you two...over and over. And I haven’t meant to. Three’s a crowd, right?” Cas heard a second of struggled breathing. “Please...you can hate me. Be mad at me. Tell Dean you’re done intervening for me. But _please_ don’t leave him on my account.” He took another slow breath. “He misses you, man. And...I um...” his voice wavered. “Take all the time you need. But please, at the end of it, come home. _Here_. Okay? I promise, I'll be out of your way this time. I don't have any more bombs to drop. It can just be you and Dean and whatever level of me you're comfortable with. Oh…and check Gabe’s smoke detectors. I bet he doesn’t test them reguarly. And watch your wallet and stuff. I hope you're not taking the subways. And—” the message cut off.

Cas was suddenly, _savagely_ , homesick. And not for New York. He wanted Dean yelling at a bad movie. He wanted Sam offering him a glass of bad punch. He wanted to go to breakfast in sweatpants. He wanted to go out for burgers and team up with Sam to make Dean eat his vegetables. He wanted to watch the panic in Sam's face fade when he reminded him to breathe, when he reassured him that he and Dean were safe and healthy and there to care for him. He wanted Dean to tell him to stop being a girl, and then curl his arm around his waist in a way that said he didn't actually mind as much.

He wanted to be one of them--the evagelical assailant, the reformed drug-addicted prostitute, and the emotionally inept and chronically disconnected doctor, who saw people as little more than cars needing their bolts and screws turned and longed so much to be different, to see what Gabe saw, what Dean and Sam saw.

The Winchesters had brought them into their fold: shown him just what it was family could do when there weren't trust funds to be negotiated and businesses to conquer. As much as the emphasis had been on Sam and Dean's faults, neither of them had ever turned and pointed out Cas'. They'd accepted him wholesale, and he'd done what Morgans always did when faced with a challenge: fight and run.

When Gabriel appeared in the doorway, it took him a moment to look from his phone to his older brother. Gabe started and said “Jesus, Cas. I’ll drive you to the airport. Got a few choice ladies working the flights on speedial. Just quit looking at me like you’ve lost custody of your kids and their puppies.”

Sometimes, Cas was overwhelmed by how much he really, _really_ , loved his big brother.

***

  
Cas was on his own front porch by morning. Dean was cooking breakfast, barking at Sam, who was thoroughly ignoring him and sipping coffee while reading the paper. The table was set for three, although Cas hadn’t told them he’d changed his ticket. Sam spotted him first—his eyes widened, and he moved to stand, but Cas shook his head and smiled. Sam beamed back, and slumped back in his chair. Cas left his bag at the bottom of the steps and crossed to the kitchen, watching Dean flip pancakes and scramble eggs, before giving an affectionate wink toward Sam.  
  
“Cas is back,” the younger Winchester said. Dean huffed.  
  
“About friggin’ time someone helped out. Serving plates, Cas. Sammy, you have two seconds to get the milk out of the fridge for Cas’ coffee before we cut off your allowance.”  
  
Cas dutifully got the larger plates out of the cabinets while Sam trotted over to the fridge. If this had been a Morgan family morning, the shouting would have started. If this had been another family, maybe he would have had to make a long speech apologizing, accepting, professing his recent realizations. If Dean had been another man, maybe he would have kissed him, reassured him, promised him he’d stay. If Sam had been another brother, maybe he would have snapped at Dean, rolled his eyes, given attitude, or been resentful that Cas had appeared in the kitchen like he belonged after walking out on them.  
  
But this was the Winchester family— _his_ family. So Sam got the milk, Cas arranged Dean’s meal on the serving plates, and the three sat down to trade stories of their weekends and make plans for their day.


End file.
